King Clarby
by ThomJarington
Summary: After losing a naval battle against the Horde, Clarby Devonshire - Captain of the Lady Thera, chooses death by firing squad, rather than being handed over to the Forsaken alive. He awakens to a new 'life' in Deathknell as Forsaken, thus beginning an 'epic' quest to find his Queen - a requirement of being King, of course.
1. The Bell Tolls

"BONGGGGggggg...!"

Eyes fluttered open with the bell's toll, flashes of light and darkness flickered through his mind - racing one another for dominance.

"BONGGGGgggggg...!"

His head buzzed like bees... _bees_? In a nest, recently kicked and disturbed. He sniffed, eyes staying open as the familiar smell of rot and decay invaded his senses.

His fingers stretched, flexing them toward his palm. They were stiff and cracked with each effort.

"BONGGGGGgggg...!"

He saw trees, mist and a ghostly white figure overhead. Licking his lips, he tasted dust mixed with flaky moistness. It stuck to his tongue. It tasted...

"Arise!" a soft, sultry voice commanded from behind - whispering from the white, figure floating overhead. There was a name associated, said by the voice, however it did not stick in his mind.

He sat, more compelled than from choice, legs dangling from the hard surface - failing to touch the ground underneath.

"BONGGGGggggggg...!"

"Welcome back to the realm of the living!" the voice whispered, louder this time, as more images came into focus - namely the gray tinge of flesh hanging from his hands in the form of fingers. They were bejeweled with rings.

"With the blessing and power from the Dark Lady," the voice continued, moving around to face him. "I have freed you from death's grip."

He rolled his hands over, inspecting them as if for the first time. He sneered, feeling a crack in his jaw when he did, staring at the tattered pants that barely covered his legs. He wore a rich, purple shirt laced with gold trim; though the shirt itself was tattered with numerous holes.

"Looks like death still be havin' me," he muttered, hearing an alien voice emanate from his crackling mouth. Something was loose inside. "I reckon I should be thankin' ya, miss ghost."

He looked up toward the winged spirit, a brief yet futile thought popping into his mind before fleeing. "Am I your zombie now? Will I be walking the world, gobbling up strangers and eating their innards?"

Why these questions came to mind he had no idea, yet as sure as he'd risen from the grave, so had come the words.

The she-ghost showed no amusement, simply replied - much to the zombie-person's dismay.

"You are no slave, Clarby Devonshire," she said, causing him to crack a smile as the name he heard stuck. _Sounds like a king's name_ , he thought, listening to the she-ghost continue.

"You are free to follow whatever path you choose from here. If you choose to serve the Dark Lady Sylvannas, you may speak to Undertaker Mordo. You will find him behind me, in the graveyard."

Clarby looked near his waist, where a gem-encrusted belt held up his rotting trousers. "Is she my Queen, miss ghost?"

The Val'kyr's eyes widened, a slight smile forming on her ghastly lips. "If you wish it," miss ghost said. "She is the Banshee Queen."

"Excellent!" Clarby said, bringing his moldy hands together in a wet, thudding clap. "A King needs a Queen. This I know." He thumbed his rich, purple shirt then tapped his rings.

"I was surely a king in my previous life, and if she is my queen, then I shall go and claim her."

"NO!" the Val'kyr cried, wriggling in her misty form - the voice high-pitched and near scream. "You are not her King! You are merely a servant of the Dark Lady, you are not her King!"

He smiled, nodded and began walking away from the Val'kyr, ignoring her wails completely.

"Oh yes," he said, "Look at the way I am dressed. Only a King would have a shirt such as this, gems likes these." He waved, not looking over his shoulder.

"Thank you, Miss Ghost lady. I will go find my queen, and make her my own!"

"Good day to you!" he said as she chased after, stopping when he disappeared completely. He had no idea how he did it, just knew that if he tried to think about being a ghost, he became one.

He wandered down the road, through the zombie-infested town - watching as others like himself ran haphazardly around like chickens without heads. Most appeared stupid, but all had something he did not - weapons.

"I bet if I ask," he said, causing an axe-toting warrior type missing a lower jaw to stop and look, as if a voice had appeared from the sky. "Someone will surely provide a King with a weapon."

"Hey!" Missing-Jaw said. "Who be sayin that?"

"It is I," Clarby said, stepping from his ghost form, appearing in front of the walking dead. "King Clarby Devonshire." Extending his right hand, he turned his palm down to expose a very large, golden ring.

"You may bow and kiss my ring."

"Ere, now," Missing Jaw said, ""I might fancy a ring like that for me own hand." Clarby smiled sadly, as if the man had no clue to whom he was speaking.

"Ow bout I cut that hand off, an be takin it for me self."

"I am your King, sir," Clarby said, crossing his arms as the man lifted his weapon. "And the Dark Lady is my Queen..."

Missing Jaw swung his single-bladed axe, aiming a blow for the crown of Clarby's white, bald head. Clarby suddenly appeared behind Missing Jaw, who missed so badly, that his axe hit the ground with a crunchy thud, and clattered from his hand. Clarby's fist punched through MIssing Jaw's skull, and crumpled him to the ground.

"That is no way to treat one's King," Clarby said, lifting the axe, and hooking it onto his bejeweled belt. "I shall take your axe in payment for your offense." The body quivered on the ground, as green ichor oozed from the collapsed skull.

"I suggest you visit the Ghost Lady, my good subject," Clarby said, walking away from the corpse. Zombies had seen the body and were moaning their way toward the feast.

"She shall be able to give you a new head, then raise you afresh."

With that, King Clarby Devonshire continued along his merry way, chopping spiders and whatever else managed to cross his path - never realizing the skills he exhibited were retained from his former life as a rogue. Instead, it reinforced the idea of his nobility.

=========================================

Three large, Black Wolves carrying Orc soldiers pounded through the town of Deathknell, thundering through the newly raised - coming to a growling halt in front of the Val'kyr known as Agatha.

"Mok'ra, Val'kyr!" one said, pounding his steel-armored chest with a fist. It rang with a clinking thud.

"We have come for Captain Clarby Devonshire!" Another Orc said, saluting the Val'kyr and speaking as soon as the first was finished.

"He is to be delivered to Orgrimmar immediately. Has he been raised?"

"Several have been raised," the Val'kyr hissed. "I do not remember their names once they awaken. They make their way to the Dark Lady on their own accord. They are not slaves."

"Where are the bodies?" the third growled. "We have our orders!"

The Val'kyr motioned toward a pile of steaming, rotting pile of human bodies lying in the back of a wagon. "That is the most recent load to be delivered," she hissed. "Search through there for your man. If you find him, I will raise him next."

The Orcs growled, dismounted and rummaged through the bodies of Humans, waving flies from their faces as they tossed body after body to the ground - inspecting each to ascertain identity.

"He's not here!" one bellowed, turning toward the Val'kyr. "We were told the crew of the Lady Thera came here, yet there is no Devonshire among the bodies."

Another's eyes lifted, widening in horror. "You've raised him already! Where is he?"

"I do not know, Orc," she hissed, sneering in anger. "I can ensure that you join him, however, if you continue to hinder my operations. I have a race to build." She dismissed them with a wave of her hand.

"Begone, cretins," she stated. "Lest I report you to The Dark Lady, and send you to see her myself!"

The Orcs mounted and raced away from the angry Val'kyr - thwarted and angry at missing their opportunity. There would be few means of recognizing him now that he was raised. Unless he retained his name, of course. Which they highly doubted.


	2. The Dark Lady's Subjects

"King" Clarby Devonshire hacked the spider's leg from its body, then severed its head - killing the massive, red-backed arachnid as easily as he'd slain the others. Ichor poured from it's wounds, covering the cavern's floor with black, sticky goo.

"You really should bow before your King," Clarby said, wiping the ooze across his torn trousers. "Even the bugs of the world are my subjects in this Kingdom."

Stuffing the still wriggling legs into a bag he'd found among stacks of webbed corpses, Clarby left the cave behind – whistling a tune that sounded eerily like a sea-faring song. He stopped, frowning at the shanty.

"Kings do not sail," he said to one of the dead spiders. It, too, was missing it's legs and head. "Nor do they sing sailing songs."

He shrugged, snorted a disappointed sound, whistled another sea shanty and walked toward the road leading away from Deathknell - never remembering that he'd been a sea captain in his previous life.

"Where next, Tracker?" the Orc leader said, watching his Tracker inspect the ground near a fallen Forsaken. A pile of dismembered zombies lay where the third Orc was removing his axe from the back of the final feaster.

"No zombie smashed this Forsaken's skull, Commander," Tracker said, dropping the partially eaten head to the ground with a moist thud. He pointed at the being's belt, where a weapon hook was attached. "Nor do they steal weapons."

"Been dead…" he said, pausing for a short snort of laughter. "…dead for a little over an hour. Poor deader had his head bashed in with a fist, by the looks of it."

Tracker stood, glancing in various directions as he wiped remains from his gauntlets on the dead Forsaken's shirt. "Yea," he continued, "I think this might be the work of our friend. None of the newly risen have displayed this sort of strength."

"Can you tell where he went?" the Orc commander said, following Tracker's eyes from his perch atop his war wolf. "Any tracks?" The third Orc joined the group, growling as he cleaned his axe.

"Off that way, I believe," Tracker said, pointing toward a slope leading into a cleft in the mountainside. "Tracks are very faint, as if made by an expert at remaining hidden."

He nodded and began walking, leading his large wolf by the reigns while watching the ground. "He's very good."

"Rogak," the Commander said, turning toward the third Orc who had also mounted his wolf. "Toss flares every hundred feet. I want this bastard caught before he slips out of this cesspool of a canyon!"

"Also," the commander said, as Rogak lit a flare and tossed it into a clearing between the trees - instantly attracting two wandering zombies toward the light. "Once we get closer to our prey, I want you to begin setting traps in the funnels created by the flares."

Rogak thumped his chest in a salute and rode ahead, tossing a flare into another clearing. Behind, a zombie grabbed the first burning flare and burst into flame, howling its undead screech while running toward a bush. The other zombie chased behind, arms extended in deathly delight.

More zombies appeared, dozens, gathering in the direction of the zombie torch – stumbling and moaning as they marched toward the attractive flame. Within minutes, the whole glade was afire, filled with shambling, burning undead – igniting the undergrowth and threatening a full scale forest fire.

The Orcs stopped, watching the inferno with morbid fascination. "Damn," the Orc commander whispered. "Those stupid bastards are going to burn the bloody forest down."

"And us with it," Rogak said, snuffing out his next flare and stuffing it away in his saddlebag. "I don't think I'll be doing that anymore." He laughed. "Who'd thought they'd want to eat flares?"

"Stupid bastards."

"Forsaken patrol!" Tracker said, remounting his wolf. "Deathguards by the look of it."

"At ease lads," the Commander said, "I'll deal with em."

Three skeletal warhorses carrying armoured Deathguards rode to galloping halt – snorting and whinnying as the chargers pranced in place.

"The Dark Lady demands to know the reason for your presence in this wood!" the lead Deathguard hissed. "And why you are burning her subjects!"

The Orc commander leaned back in his saddle, cocking his head while crossing his arms. "Mok'ra, Deathguard!" he said. "I am Commander Morthall of Hellscream's Legion. I was sent here to retrieve the newly risen Clarby Devonshire, former Captain of the Lady Thera."

"He was gone when I arrived," Morthall continued. "And now, I seek him in the wild." He waved his arm toward the burning zombies. "They burned themselves trying to eat one of my hunter's flares." He laughed. "I take no responsibility for idiocy within the Dark Lady's subjects."

"Watch your tongue, Orc," the Deathguard said. "Lest I cut it out and feed it to my pets." Morthall's eyes lifted as he bared fangs in a grin.

"I think they prefer flares, Deathguard," he said, rumbling a laugh then raising a hand before the Deathguard could continue.

"At ease, Deathguard," he continued, nodding at the Hunter and Tracker. "We were just leaving; isn't that right, Rogak?" The Hunter nodded, showing fangs in a deadly grin. The lead Deathguard nodded once.

"Very well," he hissed. "We shall ride escort to insure you make it out of this valley safely." They fell in behind Morthall and his companions. "We would not want anything to happen to Hellscream's finest."

As the Orcs exited the valley, they laughed among themselves – talking completely in Orcish, and making fun of the Dark Lady's minions. Meandering along the road, they stopped to inspect every rock, bush and tree along the way – just in case they missed a sign of their prey.

That it was a annoyance to their escort, was an added bonus.

Finally, after an hour of travel (which could have taken twenty minutes), the trio of Orcs passed through the gate from Deathknell valley and into the Trisfal Glades. They turned, waved farewell to the Deathguards and thanked them for such a lovely time.

"Be sure to give our regards to the Dark Lady," Rogak said, laughing. "Next time, we'll bring tea and crumpets."

As the trio of Orcs passed out of the valley, 'King' Clarby wandered along the foothills toward the valley gate, having watched the zombie bonfire with extreme fascination. He paid no mind to the Orcs or Deathguards he'd seen riding toward the pass.

 _Why should I?_ he thought, watching the group trot past while he sat in his ghost form, warming his hands next to a burning pile of zombies. _I am a King. They are beneath me_.

Eventually, he tired of the zombie roast - having tossed a few sticks on the pyre to lure more. It seemed they were beyond stupid, and after hearing they were his Queen's subjects, he wondered if she were good enough to be HIS queen. He doubted she was, though he owed it to himself to see. A king must explore all options.

He appeared in front of the valley guard, standing tall and proud (as any quality king would), and announced his intentions to find his Dark Lady.

"I am King Clarby," he pronounced, extending his ringed hand for the guard to kiss. The guard did not move, merely stared with cold eyes. "I am leaving this part of my Kingdom to go in search of my Queen."

He smiled, retrieving his hand. _Well trained,_ he thought. _Did not move, nor kiss my ring. My people are wise._

"Do you know where her palace may lie, so I may determine if she is worthy?"

The Guard's skeletal mouth curled into a smile. "Worthy?" he hissed, almost laughing. "The Dark Lady is your Queen, as she is mine. It is YOU who's worth shall be judged by her Ladyship."

"Of course she will be my Queen," Clarby responded, cocking his head in surprise. "Where might I find her palace, my good Knight?"

The guard snorted, shaking his boney head. "She rules from Lordaeron," he said, pointing a hand down the road. "Follow that road, _your highness_ , and you will come to her city. Present yourself to her court, and the Dark Lady will hear you."

Clarby nodded once. "You have my thanks, sir," he said. "You are an honour to my Kingdom." He turned, walking down the road in the direction the guard had pointed. "You may resume your duties, sir."

The Guard bowed deep, sweeping his arms out to the sides. "You have my thanks, Your Highness," the guard said, straightening after Clarby had departed.

"Crazy bastard," he muttered, shaking his head and laughing as the other guard from across the road walked over – both staring after Clarby, who seemed to be whistling as he faded into the distance.

"Lady Sylvannas is going to use him for a plant stand," the other guard said, joining in the laughter. "You'd think those Val'kyr would use better judgment before the raising." The other nodded.

"Was probably some bum from Westfall," the other said. "You hear of that town called Moonbrook?"

"Aye," the guard replied. "Nothing but fools and idiots come from that land." Both guards laughed.

"And murlocs," the other guard said, lifting a finger to emphasize the point. "Don't forget the murlocs. They're smarter than Humans."

"Aint that the truth!"

One of the guards frowned, looking at his partner. "Say," he said, cocking his head. "Wasn't Clarby the name of the fellow those Orcs were looking for? Clarby Devonshire?" The other shrugged.

"Maybe" he replied. "As far as I'm concerned, I aint seen no Clarby. Those damned Orcs can do their own work."

"Agreed," the other said, turning back toward his side of the road. "Us working stiffs have enough to do, without having to help others do their jobs, too." He sighed and shrugged, rolling his shoulders as if working out a hidden muscle knot.

"Well, back to work. Lunch later?"

"Sure," the other guard said, taking his position along the road's edge, opposite of his friend. "I brought roasted maggot burger, with a bag of fried snail shells. You?"

"Same as everyday, pal: braised brains and a fel leaf salad. Got to stay healthy, ya know?"


	3. A Delightful Delicacy

"What now, Commander?" Rogak asked, leaning back in his Worg's saddle and stretching his arms high overhead – the oiled leather armor creaking as he did so.

"We've been searching this sorry excuse of a kingdom for days." He grunted, grabbed a water skin from his saddle horn and threw back a swig.

"Only faint signs of Clarby's passing at the most."

He wiped his mouth with the back of his hand, then tossed the skin to Tracker who snatched it from the air.

Commander Morthall surveyed the forest, watching several sets of red, glowing eyes flickering from beneath the scraggly undergrowth. Night settled atop the hunting party, covering the group in a deep, haunting darkness that weighed heavy on their hearts. The watching red eyes didn't lift the weight one bit.

The Trisfal Glade was as mysterious as it was dark. Thick, slender firs thrust themselves toward a green-hazed, starless sky - stretching their scraggly necks as if hoping against hope that something would pluck them from the Forsaken lands and deposit them in a happier world.

Moans of the walking dead floated beneath their boughs, punctuated by an occasional howl of a fel hound pouncing upon prey – highlighted by the dying creature's last scream of terror.

And through it all, the red eyes watched.

 _What the fel do the bosses want with this deader anyway_ , Commander Morthall thought, catching the flying water skin that was flung his way. He drank deep before stoppering the skin and flinging it back to Rogak.

 _It's always us grunts shouldering the burden of ridiculous orders._

"We keep searching, soldier," he growled, as the scream of some dying creature pierced the night. "As ordered." His Worg tossed its massive head at the sound, baring its teeth in silent growl.

"But for tonight," Morthall said, patting his mount's neck. "We've ridden far enough. Dismount and make camp."

"Aye, aye, Commander," Tracker said, leaping from the saddle with practiced ease. He took the reigns from his companions as they, too, dismounted. "I'll see to the Worgs, Commander."

"Roast raptor tonight?" Tracker asked, leading the mounts away once Morthall and Rogak had removed their saddles.

"You read my mind, Tracker," Morthal said, tossing his saddle to the ground in a small clearing they had chosen to camp. The space was ringed with large, towering firs that created a protective covering from the night horrors. Except the eyes. There was no escaping those.

"Not many make it as well as you. Only reason I keep you around, in fact." Morthall grinned at Rogak, who was digging a small fire pit.

"Wouldn't ya say, Rogak?"

"Aye, Commander," Rogak replied. "Not much good for anything else; useless in fact." Rogak laughed as the Tracker snorted.

"You'd starve if I didn't keep you fat bastards fed," Tracker said, returning with his own saddle. He threw it to the ground with a jingling, heavy wet thud. "You building a fire Rogak, or is that the latrine?"

"Yea, Tracker," Morthall said. "The latrine where you'll be sleeping!" He bellowed a laugh then produced a jug of unknown alcohol.

"But before ya bed down in my filth, Tracker, have a snort o' this. Put some hair on that youthful chest of yours!"

Tracker snatched the jug from his Commander's hand, sneered then grinned. He drank deep then handed it back, sighing with pleasure.

"Smooth," he gasped, his voice weak and raspy. "That's good."

Morthall smiled, taking the jug and drinking - liquid streaming down his face as his mouth filled with more than it held. He grunted, eyes widening.

"Rogak!" he bellowed. "Drink!"

Rogak snatched the jug and drank, gulping it and spilling none. He nodded, grinning and wiping his mouth with the back of his hand.

"What the fel is that, Commander?"

"Waterfin Depthcharge," Commander Morthall said, taking the jug and stoppering it. "From the fish folk in Northrend. One of the best drinks I know." He looked around, into the darkness – eyes settling on a pair of red eyes watching him.

"I'll find us some logs for sitting," he said, walking toward the blinking eyes. He'd spotted a cut stump before darkness had swallowed it from sight, yet he recalled where it was. The eyes vanished as he approached.

"You boys get a fire going."

"After we eat, we'll decide where to look for Clarby."

* * *

'King' Clarby meandered along the dusty road, humming a hated sailing tune while spinning a captured dagger between his fingers. It was of average quality, he noted, poor balance and hard to spin.

 _Not as fine as mine,_ he thought, catching the dagger by its blade. "But I _am_ a King," he said, then snapped his head toward movement beside the road. A squirrel had crawled from a tree in search of nuts, digging in the moldy leaves with it's tiny claws.

"Screee!" it screamed, collapsing to the moist soil with Clarby's dagger sticking from its eye socket – the eye now popped and replaced with a dagger.

"Throws good, though."

For the past few days, 'King' Clarby had wandered the roads of Trisfal, not paying much mind to the direction in which he was heading. Not that he knew where he was, or where he was going for that matter. Seeking his queen was foremost in his thoughts. However, desire for the Dark Lady had faded somewhat after seeing her subjects shambling and stumbling around the forests.

The man he'd met at the Calston Homestead had done little to improve his motivations to choose the Dark Lady for his queen. Her people seemed rather useless, and if what he'd found so far was an indication of the Dark Lady's rule, then maybe he needed someone else by his side.

He chuckled as plucked the dagger from the squirrel's eye, holding the dead creature by the tail. Lifting it high to look face to face, he twisted it, cocking his head. Greyish-red fur, dull eye, blood oozing from its mortal wound.

He sniffed, smelling the hints of earth, animal and blood. Was that pine he smelled?

Nodding, he bit the head clean off - crunching the tiny fur-covered skull between his teeth before licking his decaying lips. "Not bad, not bad," he said, shoving the dagger's blade into the neck cavity of the dead rodent as he swallowed the treat.

"You are the treat of Kings, little creature," he said, using his blackened teeth to remove a dangling leg. "I shall make you a Kingdom delicacy." He wriggled, dancing a jig of happiness.

"Oh yes, a treat of the Kingdom of Clarby!"

With that, he continued onward – crunching his treat and dancing along the road toward a glow he saw from somewhere deep within the forest.

* * *

"Welcome to Brill," the Deathguard manning the gate into the walled town pronounced, raising his lantern high as 'King' Clarby approached. Darkness had fallen, making the sizzling ozone above the tall, ominous buildings crackle with charged, purple lightening. Torches illuminated the large cemetery behind the Deathguard, bringing hundreds of headstones into view.

"Thank you, my loyal subject," Clarby said, extending his hand for the guard to kiss. He frowned as the guard made no motion to follow through with the kiss, simply staring at Clarby with glowing, yellow eyes. Clarby sighed.

"What town is this, my good Guard?"

"You are in Brill," the Guard drawled, sighing and lowering his lantern. _No one ever listens,_ he thought, pushing away his sense of being inconsequential and clearing his voice. "Mind your step, citizen, and if you are looking for work, report to Magistrate Sevren in the Townhall..."

The Guard grimaced, halting his prepared and well-practiced speech as Clarby took a crunching bite from a stiff, dead squirrel attached to the business end of a dagger.

"Oh!" Clarby exclaimed, bits of half-eaten squirrel squirting from his mouth as he noticed the guard staring. "Where are my manners?" Swallowing, he offered the Guard his squirrel-laden dagger.

"Would you care for a treat?" Clarby said, failing to notice the Deathguard's shocked and surprised look.

"It will be my Kingdom's delicacy of choice, and you can be the first to try it." The Guard chuckled, pushing the dead squirrel on a dagger away.

"Ah, um, no - I do not want your rodent," Deathguard Dillinger said, smiling at the weird little Forsaken as an idea took shape inside of his hollowed out skull.

"However," Dillinger said. "I am most certain the magistrate will enjoy it. I suggest you offer it to him when you visit."

"Brilliant idea, my good man," Clarby said, grinning from earhole to earhole. "I shall make my way there at once."

"And what is your name, loyal subject?" Clarby asked, lowering his dagger and preparing to depart.

The guard rolled his eyes. "Deathguard Dillinger."

'King' Clarby nodded once. "I am King Clarby Devonshire, Deathguard Dillinger, King of all I survey." Clarby waited for a bow and when none came, smirked and began walking into town.

"I shall inform his Lordship, Magistrate Sevren, of your most delightful idea to share this delicacy with him first."

"Wait!" Dillinger shouted, lifting a gauntleted hand. "Your Highness," he added, causing Clarby to stop and turn.

"Yes?" 'King' Clarby stated.

"If you please, your highness," the guard stammered, "I would prefer that you NOT use my name. The Magistrate might think I have been remiss in my duties taking time to discuss your... treats while on guard."

Clarby waved a dismissive hand. "Nonsense!" he stated, turning to leave. "You have done your King a grand service. I will see to it you are rewarded for performing such an esteemed honour."

The Deathguard watched Clarby depart, his rotting mouth hanging open. He pulled his purple cowl tight over his head, turned toward the graveyard and surveyed the headstones - leaning his arms over the decrepit, metal fence.

"I wonder if there's a grave I can crawl into?" Somewhere deep within the graveyard, an owl hooted. A dark sign for certain.

"It's canal duty for sure, after this," he muttered with a smirk, recalling images of the festering, green 'water'ways that wound their way throughout the Undercity. He suddenly grinned.

"But the idea of Sevren being asked to eat a dead, moldy squirrel..." He laughed, turning back to his post.

"That's **worth** a month of scrubbing canals!"


	4. Clarby Makes A Friend

Clarby strode (shambled, really; though HE saw it as a kingly stride) from the Brill City Hall, his head held high and his belt absent one squirrel-laden dagger. The screams from within had died down, with the last of the Forsaken ladies having bolted from the building just minutes before.

He grinned. The treat had been a smashing success, leaving even the Magistrate speechless and the women screaming in exaltation - literally running to find more squirrels.

Even more exciting, Clarby learned that his loyal and faithful subject, Deathguard Dillinger, was about to be well rewarded.

He was a good King. This he knew: kindly and true.

So thrilled he was with the success of his squirrel treat, that he failed to notice another loyal subject standing in the doorway and promptly plowed into a hunched forsaken female - knocking her backwards almost a full two steps.

"Hey there!" she squawked, stumbling and dropping her map. "Watch where you walk, you filthy bastard!"

"Apologies, my lady," Clarby said, bowing deeply to the lovely lass that stood before him. "Affairs of state were weighing heavily upon my mind." He reached his hand forward, offering his ring. "May I be of assistance, Lady...?"

He paused, waiting for her to kiss his ring and offer up her name. She did neither.

"Sayyyyy," she said, taking his hand to inspect the large, green stone nestled on his ring. "That's some rock ya got there, mister." She looked up, attempting to slip the ring from his hand.

She failed, as he snatched it back without comment.

"Where'd ya steal that? Some poor slob's grave?"

"I did not, Madam," Clarby replied, standing hunched tall and stately proud. "I am a King. Kings always have gems like this. It is a sign of our station." He lifted his other hand, palm down.

"Observe," he said, wriggling his fingers. "I have several just like it." The woman looked at his hand, wrinkled her brow before lifting her eyes to his.

"Ah, well, mister," she said. "They musta been stole, cause there ain't..."

He snatched his ringless hand back, smiling while tilting his head taller. "As you can see, my Lady, one of my station ALWAYS has gemstones upon his person."

"I am a King, afterall."

"So you said," she said, frowning. "King of WHO?"

"King of all I survey, my Lady," he said, standing taller still (if possible), hunched back still bent as normal. "I am King Clarby Devonshire and I have come to Brill seeking my Queen."

The forsaken woman lifted what would have once been an eyebrow, now just a flaked piece of dried, mottled skin.

"Your Queen," she said slowly. "Your... Ah! You come seeking Sylvanas!" The woman snapped a hand toward the tall statue in the middle of town. It was of the Forsaken's Queen and Leader, Dark Lady Sylvannas Windrunner. Clarby frowned.

"I once considered her," he said. "But I fear she is not worthy of my attentions." He shook his head, as the woman's face darkened more than it already was.

"No," he continued. "I am journeying toward an estate called Sholomance, where I hear a woman of extreme beauty and guile resides." He nodded.

"I shall make HER my queen," he said, then snorted, waving a dismissive hand. "Not this Dark Lady of mindless zombies and unintelligent peasants."

"Now wait one damn minute, mister," the woman bellowed, catching the attention of three riders passing through town. They stopped their skeletal mounts to watch the exchange.

"You take that back," the woman said. "The Lady Sylvanas is your Queen!" She jabbed a finger into Clarby's chest, causing him to look at it.

"It's YOU who ain't worthy." The riders nodded, mumbled a few words to one another, then rode on.

Clarby shook his head. "No, my Lady," he said, pushing her finger away. "I once considered taking her for my queen, I truly did. But my journey through this land proves that she is not the quality I seek."

"In fact-"

"You're mad," the woman said, nodding. "I've seen it before. The sickness. You're completely looney."

"I am nothing of the sort, Madam," Clarby said. "Might I suggest that you mind your tongue when in the presence of a King?" He crossed his arms.

"What is it that you do for the Kingdom, my Lady?"

The woman chuckled. "I am a thief, King Clarby, I steal things for a living."

He nodded. "Ah, I see. A member of the intelligence agency," he said with a smile. "I quite respect the skills of your association. I once had designs on such a career, but then again…"

"It IS beneath a King to do such work." He pointed at the woman. "It is why I hire you to do it for me."

"You did not hire-"

"I must find a horse and be-gone from this town," he said, walking away from the stunned woman who stared as if struck dumb.

"A... a horse?" she stammered, running to catch up. "You can find the stables over this way."

Shouts and yells stopped them after a few steps, and they turned toward the graveyard. Four large Deathguards were dragging another between them, his feet leaving streaks in the caked clay road as they held him beneath his armpits.

"You got it wrong!" Dillinger bellowed. "I did'nt tell him to give that rodent to his Lordship, honest!"

"Shut up, you!" one of the Deathguards said as they approached the town's main building. Overhead, lightening raced up a metallic rod at the peak of the City Hall's roof, crackling and sizzling as if laughing at Dillinger.

"The Magistrate wants words."

"Ah!" Clarby exclaimed, watching as the Dillinger was drug past toward entry to City Hall. "I see you are being rewarded for your service to the Crown." He clapped. "Very good, very good indeed."

Dillinger's eyes swelled into huge, yellowish-white orbs. "It was HIM! He's the one who made me do it! It was him!"

"Take him, Take Clarbyyyyyyy..." The man's voice faded away as he disappeared into the dark corridors of the Brill City Hall.

CLarby nodded. "Most excellent." He swept his hand. "Shall we find that horse, my Lady?"

"The name's Jenasis, Clarby,"

"King."

She nodded. "Ah yes," she said. "Horses." She pointed toward a grass-covered shed at the opposite end of town that acted as corral for several skeletal horses. Most had skin still dangling from the bones, flapping in the wind as they ate hay that tumbled from through gaps between rib bones after being chewed.

"There, KING Clarby." He failed to hear the sarcasm in her voice, only nodding as if all was normal and expected.

"Where are we going?" she asked, as the pair approached the stables.

Clarby looked her up and down, nodding slowly as a grin grew across his face. "Yes, you may join me if you wish," Clarby said, then grabbed the reigns dangling from a purple-hued skeletal horse - mounting in one, swift motion. The stablemaster, who had been watching the pair approach, ambled toward Clarby.

"That'll be forty gold, mister," the Stablemaster said, extending his hand for payment. "Gotta pay to ride, pal." Clarby cocked his head.

"Please send the bill to the Crown, my good man," Clarby said. "You will be well paid for your service."

CLarby clicked his tongue, launching the horse into a trot toward the gate and away from the stables.

"Hey!" the Stablemaster said, taking a step toward Clarby. "Wait one damn-"

Jenasis dropped a small coin-filled pouch into the man's hand, stopping the Forsaken stablemaster in mid-sentence.

"He's not right in the head," she said. "This should cover it."

The Stablemaster pocketed the gold, then spat on the ground. "Don't care who pays me, so long as I gets paid." She raced to catch up.

"Where are we going," she said, then added a 'your majesty' after a pause.

"I ride for the Monastery, Lady Jenasis," he said, turning his horse from the road and up the trail toward the Scarlet Monastery.

Giant pink-winged bats fluttered under the tree branches, hunting the trees for living creatures from which to feed. Fel hounds prowled the thin undergrowth along the overgrown road, while spider webs hung thick from low hanging branches.

"Why?" Jenasis asked, trotting along behind Clarby's skeletal horse. She eyed a fel hound as it considered her worthy for a meal. The flash of steel in her hands made it turn back into the brush.

"To gain boon and blessing from the noble clergy that reside there," he said. "A king must always beg boon and blessing, my Lady, before setting forth on such a grand quest as obtaining a queen."

"Are you serious?" she said. "They'll cut ya to pieces. You can't go up there."

"Nonsense!" he said. "I am King Clarby. They will welcome me with open arms, and once I complete my vigil in thoughtful and enlightened prayer, we shall set forth toward the fabled keep of Sholomance!"

"We shall see," she said, shaking her and chuckling to herself. Ahead, the towering peak of the monastery's bell tower crested the hill, coming into view – standing firm against the sickly green backdrop of the Trisfal Glade sky.

At that same moment, as Clarby and Jenasis approached the hilltop monastery, three orcs rode through the gates of Brill.


	5. Squirrels or Rats?

Commander Morthal of Hellscream's Legion raised a gauntleted fist and halted his small band of hunter's in the middle of the dusty road, just outside the gates into Brill. He leaned forward in his Worg's saddle, resting both hands upon his saddle's pommel and glancing to both sides of the road.

"That's damn peculiar," he grunted, then rocked back in the saddle as Rogak trotted his Worg beside him. Tracker joined on the other side. "One would expect Deathguards to greet us into their lovely town."

That's one word for it, Rogak thought, nodding at his Commanders words while watching Tracker lean over the side of his worg. Brill was a town from nightmares, created to scare little Orc children into going to bed when told.

Tall, steep-roofed stone buildings rose toward the dark sky, their wooden shingles curling at the edges as if peeling themselves to escape. Pervasive purple light cast its eerie glow around the town, flowing from every window and crack. Wrought iron spiked fencing topped cobblestone masonry to form the village walls, while the same fencing acted as perches for crows and ravens atop the buildings.

As the commander noted, there were no Deathguards watching the entry into the village.

Rogak nodded, watching Tracker lean over the head of his Worg then dismount, walking toward a pair of drag marks in the dusty road.

"Look here, Commander," he said, kneeling next to the marks and pointing. "Something's been drug away." He stood and walked toward Brill a few steps, pointing to various marks.

"Think it's our man?" Rogak asked, watching with fascination as Tracker performed his duty. While Rogak considered himself an expert with traps and ranged weaponry, he couldn't come close to the tracking skill Tracker displayed.

In fact, he was so good at what he did, he went by no other name. He was Tracker - he was a legend.

"Four dragged one. Heavy boots; Forsaken military issue." He looked back toward his comrades who, remaining mounted, followed as he walked.

"Not Clarby," he said, shaking his head. "In fact, I've..." he stopped, cocked his head and walked toward the brown grass near the cemetery where the drag marks began.

"Wait a moment," he whispered, dropping to his hands and knees to stare intently at the dirt on the edge of the road. He sniffed, then sat back on his knees - nodding once.

"Yes, Commander. He was here."

"Look," Tracker said, pointing at what appeared to be nothing more than a patch of disturbed soil. "His prints. Faint, yet very distinct." He nodded again, leaning from his kneeled position to look in various directions around the so-called print.

"He's definitely here, Commander," Tracker said, jumping to his feet and walking toward the town - head down while his Worg followed behind. "Fresh, not more than four hours old."

"Blood and ashes!" Morthall exclaimed, "About Light-damned time we caught up to that sneaky bastard."

Rogak nodded. "You'd think he knew we were after him." Morthall grunted in reply.

"Easy now, lads," the Commander said, following slowly behind Tracker. "We don't need him getting wise to us. Once we locate him, we'll follow through on the capture plan." He looked at Rogak and Tracker, who had stopped to listen. "Understood?"

Both Orcs nodded. "Aye, Commander," Rogak said, "Got my trap all ready for him." Tracker said nothing, simply turned toward the faint tracks he followed.

"Ho, ho!" Tracker said after several more steps, leaning down to lift a scraggly, furry object from the grass. He held the squirrel tail aloft for his companions to see.

"Another tail, Commander." Shaking his head, he tossed it into the bushes lining the graveyard.

"Amazing there's any squirrels left in Trisfal," Morthall said, laughing. "The way that bastard's been eatin' em." Rogak laughed as well.

"Like candy in a whelp's hand," Rogak said. "We could use him on the ship, clear out the rats in no time." Morthal stopped.

"No!" Morthall exclaimed. "What's a ship without rats?" He shook his head.

"A clean ship?" Tracker said, suddenly interested in the conversation. "No one likes rats, Commander, not even these bloody Forsaken."

They were closer to the town, now, and its citizens had come into view. Including a quad of Deathguards riding their way.

Morthall grinned. "A ship without rats ain't natural, Tracker. Like you without a nose." He laughed. "Nah, leave him to the squirrels. I like my rats!"

"Deathguards, Commander," Rogak said, nodding up the road. "Looks like our missing four."

"Excellent," Morthall said, leaning back in his saddle. "Maybe they can give us directions to our long, lost deader friend."

Four Deathguards stopped their skeletal mounts in front of the Orcs, blocking their way into Brill. Armored in dark purple chainmail, the Guards peered at the Orcs from beneath dark blue hoods. Gray white bones poked through broken places in the chainmail, yet the heavy axes they carried on their horses proclaimed the Guards meant business.

"Welcome to Brill, Orcs," one of the Deathguards said, his voice hissing with a haunting echo. The others eyed Tracker, who had returned to snuffling the ground.

"The Dark Lady bids you welcome."

"Mok'ra!" Morthall said, slamming fist to chest in a salute. "I am Commander Morthall of Hellscream's Legion. We are searching for... someone. He goes by the name, Clarby. Calls himself a King, so we've heard."

Morthall grinned. "Seen him?"

Two of the Deathguards looked at one another before responding to Morthall. "Why do you hunt the Forsaken, Commander? Is he a criminal?"

Tracker stood, turning to face the mounted Forsaken. "So you've seen him, eh?" Tracker said, cocking his head to the side.

"Recently, perhaps?" He smiled as the Deathguard's face darkened. "Ah, so you have. Still in town?"

Morthall's face lifted into a fang-filled grin. "He's wanted in Orgrimmar by the Warlord himself, Deathguard. You'd be wise to lead us to him."

"We have our duty to the Dark Lady, COMMANDER," the Deathguard growled. "I do not know anyone with the name Clarby."

He hissed, clicked a noise from deep within his rotten mouth - urging the four skeletal warhorses into a walk past the Orcs.

"Dark Lady watch over you," he hissed as he passed Morthall, adding a snarled 'Commander' at the end. Morthall chuckled.

"And a jolly good day to you as well, friend," Rogak said in a human-like voice. "Light be with you, brother."

More hisses and the Deathguards burst into a gallop away from the Orcs.

"Lovely chaps, eh Commander?" Rogak said, maintaining his human accent. Morthall nodded, rumbling a laugh at his companions parting words. Where had Rogak learned that accent?

"Not quite our sort, though," Rogak continued. "Perhaps we shall find more charming company at the inn. Maybe a spot of tea?"

Morthall rolled his eyes. "So long as it ain't squirrels," he snorted, urging his Worg toward town – leading the way for the other two.

"Or rats," Tracker added, remounting and lining up behind Morthall and Rogak.

"NO one should like rats!"


	6. Off With His Head

"You're really going to go in there, aint'cha?" Jenasis said, following 'King' Clarby up the road toward the Scarlet Monastery. Dark clouds threatened rain, and with a glance toward the sky, she pulled a cowl over her head - plunging her rotting face into deep shadow.

"I do indeed, Lady Jenasis," Clarby replied. "I am a-"

"Yes, yes," she interrupted, waving her hand and nodding. "A King; I got it." Clarby nodded, smiled and walked toward the looming cathedral.

The Scarlet Monastery, headquarters of the Scarlet Crusade, was notorious among the Forsaken. An order originally created to eradicate the world of the undead Scourge, the Scarlets now turned their sights on the Forsaken – not seeing any difference between the two.

The Monastery, placed atop the highest hill in the Trisfal Glades, was the base for all of the Scarlet Crusade's operations against the Forsaken. Armed to the rafters with crusaders, weapons and religious zealots, it was a formidable fortress; a place to be feared and not easily approached.

"SCOURGE!" a cry came from up ahead, as King Clarby and Jenasis reached the pinnacle. Two red liveried men stepped into the road, blocking the path of the pair of Forsaken pilgrims.

"Scourge attack!"

Clarby strode forward as if he'd not heard a word, while Jenasis used her rogue skills to slip unseen into the lengthening shadows.

 _This aint gonna be pretty_ , she thought, sliding daggers from her belt. _Not pretty a'tall. Maybe I'll grab his rings once they kill him._

"Hail, friends!" Clarby said, raising his claw-like boney hand in greeting. "I am King Clarby Devonshire, and I've come to gain boon and favor from the Bishop himself."

In response, the men ripped swords free and charged forward, the cry of "Scourge" pouring from their lips. Bells rang, echoing over the hillside like summoning citizens to church – sending crows cawing into the sky from the cathedral's roof.

"Ah," Clarby said, opening his arms and smiling. "You rush to pay homage." He nodded. "It is good I have come."

He waited, watching patiently as the men quickly closed the distance. Then, one suddenly stopped, grasping his head and wobbling in place. The other crusader failed to notice his partner's demise, and aimed a blow at Clarby's uncovered, sickly bald head.

Clarby frowned. "My good man," he said, easily ducking the swing as it whistled by with a rish of wind. "There is no need for that sort of behavior." A backhand swing was dodged as well.

He grinned once more. "I come in peace, wishing to-"

Clarby sidestepped a thrust from the slobbering, wild-eyed Human Crusader, his grin dropping into a frown. Clarby punched, smashing the human between the eyes with his large ring – instantly dropping the attacker with a cold, hard thud.

"That will be enough of that," Clarby said. He shook his head sadly. "I will have to report you to your superiors. The nerve of some people." He snorted, stepping over the man and continuing onward toward the monastery's stair-stepped entrance.

"I do not think the Bishop will approve of your actions, sir."

"Lady Jenasis?" he called, looking around the grounds – ignoring the stunned Crusader wobbling in place in the middle of the road.

"You may now come out of hiding," he said. "It was a simple misunderstanding, it seems. Easily rectified. You are safe, now."

Jenasis appeared behind the sapped Human, who now fell to the ground, dead, as her dagger plunged into his spinal cord, and then his heart.

"Excuse me?" she snapped, lifting the bloodied dagger in emphasis. "Hiding? Do you think that's what-"

"All is well, My Lady," Clarby said, grabbing her hand. She tried to pull away but failed.

"Shall we continue? I wish to see the Bishop and be gone before nightfall." He patted her hand like a father, dragging her past the fallen Crusader as her eyes lingered on the unconscious man.

"My Queen awaits in Sholomance!"

Meanwhile, back in Brill, the Orc hunting party stood outside of the town's dark tavern.

"I am Commander Morthall, madam," Morthall said to a forsaken lady who stood outside the inn beating never-ending dust from a purple, moldy rug. "I am seeking a... man named Clarby."

"Have you seen him? He's an old war mate of mine from... Northrend," he added, smiling and leaning forward in his saddle from atop his Worg.

"I'd been told that he was here."

The woman cackled. "I hadn't 'eard Orcs and Forsaken COULD be war buddies, Commander," she said, her voice sounding like a rusty cemetery gate being opened in the dead of night. She wacked the rug once more, sending more dust spinning into the air.

"After the incident at the Wrathgate an' all." Rogak rolled his eyes.

Morthall nodded. He'd expected resistance to his questions in Brill. "Ah, yes," he said. "That." He chuckled.

"Well, me an ole Clarby go further back than that, madam. In fact, one time at the Argent-"

"It's Renee," she grated, cutting Morthall off mid-sentence. She sighed. "I'm sure your tale is splendid, Commander, but you see," she said, popping her rug one final time. Rogak was shocked it hadn't fallen apart. He'd seen better in the ancient Vyrkul tombs of the Howling Fjord.

"I've an inn to run. If you want a room, I'll rent you one. If you want information, ask Yvette Farthing. She's the town gossip."

"Rooms," Morthall snorted. "Very well, Renee, I need two - one for me, one for my Hunter, Rogak."

"And your other man, Commander?" she asked, pointing at Tracker. "What about him?"

"I sleep outside," Tracker grunted. "Can't stand being locked up in a room." He glanced at Morthall. "Might be rats."

Renee laughed. "Of course there's rats," she said, as if that was the silliest statement she'd ever heard. "The finest in all Trisfal, in fact."

"What's an inn without quality rats?"

Tracker grinned, nodding at Morthall and Rogak whose faces had suddenly darkened.

"See?" Tracker said with a laugh. "Sounds like your sort of place, Commander. Enjoy. I'm sleeping in the woods."

Once the two Orcs stowed their gear in their room, the pair gathered inside of the tavern. Tracker saw to the mounts, refusing to dine inside with his commander's delightful vermin - claiming the need to find Clarby's trail before sundown.

Cobwebs hung from cracked and rotting wooden beams, while screeching sounds came from the dark corners of the room. A greenish fire sizzled inside the hearth, cooking a bubbling, purplish liquid inside of a large, black cast-iron cookpot. Trying not to imagine what might be cooking, the commander turned his attention to the 'lady' seated at their table.

"So, Yvette," Morthal said, sitting at a table nearest the hearth. Most of the tables were occupied by various townsfolk, all Forsaken. To a being, they all kept one eye socket on the Orcs, while Rogak stared at the pot's contents, wrinkling his nose.

"Do you know of my friend Clarby?"

He slid a second loaf of bread across the table to Yvette, accompanying a third bowl of stew she'd begun eating. _They eat like pigs,_ he thought. _Bottomless pits! I wonder where it goes_? He avoided the temptation to look under the table, fearing he might just find out.

"I think I've seen him around," she mumbled between slurps - stew dripping down her chin and falling through cracks in the table. "Was with a lady, too."

She grinned, tearing a piece of bread from the loaf then sopped what stew remained from the table. "Some wench that'd been hanging round here pickin' pockets from gents like yerself."

Rogak patted his coin purse. Still there.

"Oh?" Morthall said, absently doing the same. He looked at Rogak. "Ole Clarby's gone and got himself a woman, eh?" he said, grinning and nodding as if impressed.

"Bout time," Rogak responded, pulling his eyes from the bubbling pot. "Especially after chasing away that scullery girl in Northrend; what was her name?"

"Druscilla," Morthal said, watching Rogak's eyes. "Made the best damned Raptor I ever did eat." Rogak nodded, noticing Yvette was paying attention.

"Raptor?" she asked, interjecting. "Roast raptor?"

"Aye," Morthall said. "The best ever. You'd loved it. Clarby's got the recipe; learned it from that girl, Light rest her soul." Yvette hissed, recoiling at the word, Light.

"Sorry," Morthall said, lifting his hand to stop her words. "No offense. But the raptor was damned good." Yvette's face softened.

"That good, eh?" Morthall nodded.

"Say," Rogak said. "I bet if we found him, he'd make it for you, Yvette. Make it for all of us, in fact." Yvette's eyes widened, her hollow sockets bulging with gooey, yellowish liquid.

"Would he?"

"He's a friend," Morthall said, glancing at Rogak. "Of course he would." Rogak sighed, sitting deeper into his chair.

"If only I knew where to find him," Rogak said. He cocked his head, as if a thought popped into his head. "Just think, we could dine on roast raptor tonight if he was here."

"If only..." Morthall whispered, sighing sadly. Yvette gulped her last bit of stew.

"You know," she said, licking her dried up lips with a grey, dead tongue. "I may know someone who can help." She looked at the two Orcs.

"Roast raptor, you said?"

"Aye, Yvette," Morthall said, nodding. "The BEST."

She grinned. "Go talk to my friend, Eliza Callen," Yvette said, talking faster with excitement.

"She knows everything that goes on in this town. You'll find her selling armor near the stables. Tell her I sent you."

Morthall stood, looking at Rogak with a smile. "We shall see her at once!" he said, saluting the forsaken woman. "And thank you for your company, Yvette. It has been most enlightening."

"Don't forget," she croaked. "Roast Raptor!"

Once outside, Rogak gave his Commander a knowing look. "Something's off with these folks, Commander," he said, shaking his head while scanning the town. Venders were scattered up and down the road, making it difficult to find one person.

"You think?" Morthall replied. "They're walking dead, Rogak; not a damned thing right about that. Dead should stay dead, if ya ask me."

"And orcs should stay in their hovels," a passing Deathguard spat. "And out of our people's business." Rogak growled, reaching for his axe. Morthall stayed his hand, narrowing his eyes at the guard.

"However," the guard continued. "If you wish to stay, perhaps you can learn something of us. We are having an execution in a few moments - a Deathguard of all things." The guard grinned.

"Care to watch?"

The two orcs looked at one another then shrugged. "Why not," Morthall said. "What did he do to deserve dea... an execution?" The guard chuckled.

"Do not worry, Orc. It is not permanent. We chop off his head, send him back to Deathknell and he returns after a week of rotting in an open grave for the crows to pick at."

"That's... insane," Rogak muttered. "He won't STAY dead?"

"What's the point in that?" Morthal added.

The guard shook his head. "Of course he won't stay dead. We aren't barbarians, you know!" He motioned for them to follow.

"The point is to teach a lesson. If one wishes to be a Deathguard, one must do their duty at all times." They passed through the streets, earning looks from the Forsaken vendors. In moments, they approached the cemetary.

"In this man's case," the guard continued, leading them toward the center of the massive graveyard, where a small crowd had formed around a raised, wooden platform. "He caused Magistrate Sevren discomfort and public embarrassment."

"That sort of thing cannot be tolerated." He stopped them near the wooden stage.

"Ah, we're here." He smiled, "Enjoy the show."

"Wait," Morthal said, grabbing the guard's armored shoulder. "What sort of embarrassment?"

"He..." The guard stopped as a robed Priest, three guards, a headsman and a prisoner appeared atop the stage. A headsman's block was situated in the middle and the prisoner, with tied hands, was placed just behind it.

"You'll see."

"May I have your attention?" the robed man said, climbing the steps and addressing the crowd. the loud discussions dropped to a hissing buzz. "Thank you," he said as the group grew silent.

"We are here to bear witness to the public execution of DeathGuard Dillinger. Who, just a few hours ago, saw it fit to embarrass and humiliate Magistrate Sevren in public."

Gasps arose from the crowd, accompanied by an "off with his head!" from a random voice near the Orcs. The speaker smiled and raised his hand.

"Yes, we will get to that in a moment, I can assure you."

"However," he continued, turning to face the prisoner. "Before we begin, do you have any last words, Dillinger, before we commence with your execution?"

The doomed man frowned, distress distorting his face. His hollow eyes scanned the crowd, searching for friendly faces – landing on those of the Orc hunting party.

"Only to say that I didn't mean any harm," Dillinger said. "I thought that man was crazy, I didn't think he'd actually do it!" The robed Priest snorted a laugh.

"Yes," the Priest said, smiling and eyeing the crowd. "Sending rotten rodents for his Lordship to eat, especially while holding court, would surely not cause any harm."

Many of the Forsaken laughed at the idiocy of Dillingers words, the sound of it resembling swarms of locusts. The Priest lifted a hand and Dillinger was forced to his knees – his head placed atop the block.

"That man may have been insane," The Priest said, lifting a finger at a massively tall, hooded headsman standing next to Dillinger.

"But it was you that sent him."

The headsman lifted a wicked black-bladed axe high overhead, holding it in place as his eyes focused on the priest – peering between cut slits from behind the silk, purple hood.

"Maybe next time you'll think twice before playing pranks on the Magistrate."

The Priest nodded and the axe fell, slicing through Dillinger's neck and thudding into the block – the head falling into a wicker basket below with a mushy thump. The crowd cheered, hooting and hollering as the deed was done.

"Take him to Deathknell," the Priest said then turned to the crowd. "Thank you for coming," he said, dipping his head in a bow.

"Dark Lady be with you."

As the crowd dispersed, the Orcs stared at the platform in silence as the headsman gathered the headless body of Deathguard Dillinger, as well as the basket containing his severed head. They knew exactly who had sent the rodents, but just to be certain, they asked their escort who was preparing to depart.

"Who was this man who delivered the rodents to the Magistrate?" Morthall said, returning his attention to their escort.

The Guard snorted. "Some fool calling himself a King." He shook his head. "King Devonshire or some nonsense like that."

"Rode outta town before we could catch the bastard." The guard laughed, a sound much like a girl's giggle coming from the body of an insect.

"Bet ole Dillinger'l not be playing pranks on the Magistrate anymore."

The orcs frowned, watching the Deathguard leave along with the crowd. Soon, they were alone in the cemetery.

"No, I reckon he won't"


End file.
